


Coming Up For Air

by the_genderman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agoraphobia, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Slice of Life, figuring out how to be human again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 04:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14663612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman
Summary: A brief slice of life, immediately post CA:TWS, as Bucky attempts to deal with autonomy and being human.





	Coming Up For Air

**Author's Note:**

> They say write what you know, so I wrote Bucky having anxiety about going outside. Title is a line from Metallica "-Human" ("Minus Human").

The nice thing about HYDRA safe houses was that they were soundproofed (and many other things proofed) to hell and back again, Bucky thought as he paced the front room, cursing quietly to himself. Why was this so hard? What did it mean that he could snap a neck without breaking a sweat, dispose of a body like it was second nature, but he couldn’t go grocery shopping like a normal human being? 

Probably that he wasn’t a normal human being, not anymore. He wasn’t sure what he was, but he didn’t think ‘human’ quite figured into the equation. He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to fight off the stress headache. He wouldn’t be having this problem (the headache) if he could, _you know_ , make a goddamn human decision instead of pacing holes into the carpet.

The safe house had been stocked with a week’s worth of non-perishable rations when he had broken into it, killing the lone occupant. HYDRA, no great loss. It was kill or be killed. If he hadn’t, they would have known where to find him and he would die before going back. He had stretched the food rations out as long as he could without having to leave the house, but he was down to the ancient saltines that smelled like rancid cardboard and tasted even worse. He was going to have to go grocery shopping pretty soon, or else knock down another safe house. If he was going to have to leave the house, might as well go whole hog.

He was slightly embarrassed that he was actually considering going the safe house route over grocery shopping. That way, if anyone saw him, they probably would never get that chance again. He’d be gone, holed up in another neighborhood, another city, another state. He’d be embarrassed but safe. But, embarrassment was a human emotion, right? It was a start. He stopped pacing for a moment, dropping his hands to his sides. He glanced towards the front door of the little shotgun house, as if asking it to help him in his decision. The door, as expected, was silent. His stomach churned from both hunger and anxiety.

He had gone out in public before and no one had recognized him. He had gone to the Smithsonian. But that had been a brief outing, anonymous crowds, dim lighting in the actual exhibit. Not the brightly lit modern grocery store with sample kiosks scattered across the floor space, actively looking for people to tempt over with chicken meatballs, or crackers and cheese, or weird green juice. Oh, he had tried grocery shopping once already in this century, and he did _not_ like it; he had gotten as far as the meat counter before he’d began to hyperventilate and had to duck back out, abandoning his basket of produce in the florists’ display case. Didn’t make it any less crucial, though. He’d have to do it eventually. No way around it.

But that would involve actually leaving the house. Going outside. Where the people were. People who were a sea of unknown variables. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t even see him; just another face in the crowd. For the past almost seventy years, he had been shaped, molded, trained, and punished into nothing more than a shadow. Unseen, unmemorable. A ghost, slipping in and out wherever he wanted to go (wherever he was _told_ to go).

That code was gone. He was left feeling very exposed, very vulnerable, very _human_ , somehow. He began pacing again, to give his nervous energy somewhere to go. If he was going to actually attempt to _be_ human, he would have to find a way to move past this anxiety, or at the very least, to turn it into something he could work with. Rewrite his code. Be _vigilant_ , not paranoid.

He approached the front window cautiously, not letting the curtains shift with his movement. He stepped closer, poking carefully at the very edge by the frame, nudging it just far enough aside to peer out. The street was nearly empty, one afternoon dog-walker with something small, yappy, and suspicious heading up the other side of the street. He’d have to wait until they were well past to even consider going out.

Bucky let the curtain fall its few millimeters to closed again. He crouched down on the balls of his feet, out of line of sight, hands on his temples, head bowed. _Abort! Abort!_ His brain screamed, his stomach seethed. A growl escaped his clenched teeth. This wasn’t who he used to be, wasn’t who he was supposed to be. (Wasn’t who he _could_ be?) He dropped his hands and sat down on the floor, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. He pressed his back to the wall, feeling its relatively solid presence. At least he wasn’t pacing anymore, he thought with a little silent chuckle.

He still hadn’t left the house, though. He still hadn’t managed to leave the _goddamn_ house.

He glared at the door again as if it were the one holding him back. His stomach growled again. He briefly considered eating a handful of those nasty saltines to tide him over, but quickly decided against it. He didn’t want to risk throwing up in the store and making a scene.

No, just get up off your ass and go to the store. _Pretend_ to be human if you have to, but get up and _do_ it, Bucky told himself. Cursing Zola and HYDRA and Pierce and his stomach and his fucked up brain, he stood up slowly and grabbed the house keys from their hook on the wall. He patted his pocket, making sure his money was still there. It was. He squared his shoulders, pulled his baseball cap on, low over his eyes, and reached out tentatively to unlock the door.

His stomach turned. The doorknob turned. Just get one foot out the door, and the rest would follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: 15MAY18  
> Minor missing word corrections.


End file.
